


As Simple as Spilled Sugar

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Epiphanies, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home after a hard day at work and comes to a startling conclusion. Well, maybe not that startling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Simple as Spilled Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up this morning and this little drabble was fully formed in my brain. I don't know where it came from, why it was so damn fluffy, or why it was so desperate to come out. I guess I just really miss the domestic bliss in Baker Street. I know there are a hundred of these fics floating around but this one is mine and it had to come out. You can pluck this story out somewhere between the first and second season I think. It's a simple affair, sweet and uncomplicated, unlike the very real nature of canon BBC Sherlock and the hell these two have been made to endure. But we all know the clash that's coming will be all the sweeter for it. Stay strong my babies. Read sugary sweet drabbles until our day comes.

John stumbled into the flat with the world weary, heavy gait of the recently work released; so dead on his feet he could barely lift his toes enough to avoid tripping on the stairs. His jacket was shrugged off his shoulders and when it fell to land at the foot of the coat rack all he could do was stare at it. The idea of bending over to pick it up was absurd.

“Tell me we have tea. My kingdom for a cup, that’s all I ask,” he moaned on his way through the kitchen.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally from his usual space at what had once possibly been a kitchen table. His face was hidden from view as he studied what was no doubt the next great scientific breakthrough of the century, which would quickly become notes scribbled on the back of an electric bill and relegated to the bottom of a cardboard box.

John, for his part, saved what he could and saw that it was filed in an actual system of physical recovery, the filing cabinet, but his actions went unnoticed. Sherlock had his own filing system after all.

Miracle of miracles, there was tea. He went about preparing, the sound of boiling water and the tinkling of Sherlock’s glass slides having an immediate effect on his heavy shoulders, as the familiarity of it soaked into his bones.

“Had an awful day today. Dr. Brooke is out this week and she’s shifted a dozen of her worst patients onto me. Still angry about that incident at the café I assume. By rights you should be giving jabs and consoling the elderly since that was all your fault to begin with. Christ, Sherlock, you’ve got sugar all over the counter,” he snapped as he set his hand down in the grainy bits. He smacked his hands together over the sink and scowled at the mess. White trails of it all over faded lino as if he’d jammed a spoon in and flung it without care into his mug, which was precisely what had happened judging by the cold cup that sat at his flatmates elbow. “This is how we get ants you know. You could show a bit more care.” He did a poor job of sliding what he could into the sink but the mess was extensive; bits of it kept falling off the side of the counter onto the floor.

“Ants?” The man responded for the first time, perking up a bit. “Do you really think so, John? That would be lovely. Wouldn’t have to go outside to scoop them up. Been meaning to start that study of their foraging patterns, the way they communicate location to one another, that sort of thing.”

He went on and on about his fascination with the pests but John was too busy standing at the sink, ignoring the beep of the kettle, the still sticky bits of sugar between his fingers, to respond. His face was frozen in silent wonder. It started with an exasperated laugh. _Of_ _course_ Sherlock would have ignored the part where John was complaining about his day, _of_ _course_ he’d missed the part where John had suggested they _not_ get ants from spilled sugar, _of_ _course_ he’d latched onto the part where such an event could be used to his advantage because _of course_ ants were fascinating creatures, no mind that they would crawl into the freshest of their already low amount of fresh food and spoil everything.

And _of_ _course_ John found all of this incredibly endearing instead of frustrating to the point of madness.

By all rights he should have felt the wind on his face. That was what should have happened, since he was finally falling. He’d spent months crawling up a mountain of these moments; these stumbling blocks of body parts in the fridge, inappropriate smiles at crime scenes, rolling over each other to avoid bullets. Higher and higher he’d climbed to avoid the avalanche that was Sherlock Holmes. And now he stood at this precipice of moments, big and small, and it was this- spilled sugar on a weary Sunday late afternoon- and he finally fell.  There was no wind, no real rush of adrenaline; just a familiar warmth in his chest that spread outward in all directions. The only difference between this moment and all the rest was the acknowledgment of said moment.

_I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes._

He turned the kettle off with a steady hand and casually flipped the faucet on to wash the rest of the sugar from his fingers. The sink needed a good scrub, he’d have to see to that later. After.

He turned back and rested his hips against the counter as he wiped his hands off on a hopefully clean dish flannel and looked his flatmate over with new eyes.

“I would keep them in a terrarium of course. I know what you’re thinking but I wouldn’t just let them roam free about the flat. I’m not an idiot,” he was saying. John smiled- _Of course you’re not_ -and continued to watch him. “I have one around here somewhere. Yes, from the Pterios experiment, the case with the Japanese business man and his secretary. It would have to be- Oh.” His eyes widened and he looked around the room in confusion. “I forgot to feed the fish,” he mumbled.  

Never mind that in the seven months John had been living at Baker Street there hadn’t been any fish that he’d seen in any aquarium, living or dead. John shook his head with a laugh and advanced on the still baffled detective.  

There was a fine line between stupid and brave, as any soldier could attest, but in that moment he didn’t feel either. He felt content.

That was why he placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, tipped his jaw up and softly placed his lips down on Sherlock’s own. He felt the pull of air as Sherlock sucked in a shocked breath, but he didn’t pull away, so that had to count for something. It was a bit selfish of him, if he was honest, because in that moment he wasn’t concerned with Sherlock’s reaction at all. All he concerned himself with was laying a few chaste kisses against those lips, alternatively the top and then the bottom, and then he pulled away with a satisfied sigh.

Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch. John could see the line of confusion, just there between his brows, and the movement of his eyes behind his almost translucent eyelids, as he did his best to parse this sudden reaction on John’s part.

He brought his left hand back up and gently cupped Sherlock’s cheek. He ran a reverent thumb over one porcelain cheekbone and smiled.  

“You’re confused,” he whispered softly. “I would be too if you’d done the same out of the blue. ‘Not gay,’ ‘married to your work’ and all that. But underneath all the posturing, didn’t you see this coming? Maybe you didn’t. I would apologize but…No, I wouldn’t.” He chuckled. “Sorry for not being sorry I guess.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, his posture rigid, his face still immovable. John took the opportunity to run his fingers into those silken curls; a temptation he’d had to avoid on several occasions. How many times had he had to stop himself from bending down and laying a quick kiss on top of Sherlock’s head as he sat in this very chair? How many times had he pulled his fingers away just in time to avoid squeezing Sherlock’s own as he passed him a mug of tea? Curb a smile that felt a little too much like a secret? Small moments that became a mountain.

“I’m going to call for take-away. We’ll have dinner and then we can talk if you want. If not, that’s fine. I’ll give you time to figure it out your own way. But you should know,” he swallowed, feeling brave for the first time since he’d walked through the door after his hard day, “I’ll take you however I can get you. Whether that’s what we have now or something more, it’s all fine. Just know that I love you, as you are, all of you and if you’ll have me, we could make something very fine indeed. More than fine. At least I think so.” He cleared his throat after that monumental but simple speech and started to pull away.

Sherlock’s hand shot up, nearly giving John a coronary, and locked onto his wrist, keeping his hand firmly placed where curls were at their thickest. His eyes blinked open slowly and he looked John over with a not quite clinical assessment.

“You really mean that,” he stated.

John nodded, never more sure of anything in his life. “Very much so, yes.”

“And you’ve thought about this? About us?”

“I tried not to but…Yes. It’s probably overwhelming to you, I know, but I just couldn’t stop it and I’m tired of pretending-“

“Kiss me again.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he practically growled.

“Oh, okay.”

He leant back down and pressed their lips together. Only this time Sherlock was suddenly, shockingly, sure of himself. John found himself pulled down roughly, his legs tugged and maneuvered just so, so that when he fell, it was into Sherlock’s lap, legs on either side in a tight grip on slim hips. He prayed the chair would support them both and then thought fled as Sherlock opened his mouth, just enough of an invitation that John accepted. He almost felt bad for accusing Sherlock of being overwhelmed, as he quickly found himself dizzy and breathless, wrapped with suffocating tightness in Sherlock’s grasp. He introduced his tongue to the mix and when Sherlock groaned John thought he might just pass out from the sudden rush of blood. South, everything was going south with the efficiency of a well-oiled, much younger machine.  Yes. That was apt. They were snogging with the urgency of two randy Shakespearian teenagers in fear of being pulled apart by some outside force. With that thought came the realization that if he didn’t pull away at some point he _was_ going to suffocate. He did pull away, just, but only to quickly latch on to that pale length Sherlock called his throat. He received another groan against his lips and bit down just a little bit harder on the expanse of flesh.

“If I’d’ve known you wanted this,” John whispered between wet kisses and nips, “I would have started in the first night.”

“You did try,” Sherlock replied, cheeky.

“I did. And was shot down,” he reminded with a particularly vicious bite.

Sherlock’s hips tilted as he sucked in a breath. “I shall endeavor to make that up to you,” he moaned. His hand came up to press against the back of John’s head, pushing against him. John sucked hard, knowingly leaving a dark stain of broken capillaries in his wake. Might as well, since they were writhing like bloody teenagers anyway.

“Thought you didn’t do this sort of thing,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s collarbone. He was enjoying this turn of events too much not to tease.

“Deleted. Thought I deleted. It’s coming back to me,” he answered breathlessly, his hands travelling down until he could pull John’s bottom closer. They both groaned at the contact.

Suddenly Sherlock stiffened and pulled away. John pulled back to see what the matter was but Sherlock’s gaze was turned toward the sitting room. John realized he’d vaguely heard what sounded like a car door but had ignored it in favor of chewing on his flatmate turned hopefully lover.

“No,” Sherlock growled.

John found himself tossed aside and, after righting himself, watched in confused horror as Sherlock rushed away. The front door was slammed shut, as well as the side one, and they were both locked soundly.

John’s frown was wiped clean away when Sherlock yelled through the door, “Go away, you fat meddlesome pervert.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s answering drawl made John’s blood boil. “Don’t be difficult. I advised against this for good reason. No good will come of it.”

“Oh, plenty of good is going to _come_ of it,” Sherlock replied, the innuendo making John’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline.  “You had best pray there aren’t any of your cameras in my bedroom, Mycroft, because I plan on doing the ill-advised all night and well into the morning.”

With that parting shot he snatched John by the hand and pulled him down the hall, into the bedroom. John would have liked to have gotten a word in edgewise to his scheming pseudo brother-in-law about continuously putting cameras in their flat but he had more important things to occupy his mind.

“I don’t think I’ve got your brother’s blessing, dear,” he snickered into Sherlock’s neck as he backed the man into the closed door.

“I count it as a plus, really,” he replied with a moan. He started undoing the buttons on his shirt, all the while staring John down like a freight train. “Now, what was all that about us becoming something more than fine?”

**Author's Note:**

> Watcha think? I stopped it just before the good part, I know. But this piece was about the fluff and not about the smut. There are a thousand others for that. This story was not conducive to telling how Sherlock and John became two thirds of a human centipede after Mycroft left. It was about love and kisses and fluff you perverts. *Snicker*  
> All things fandom at my blog [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank) Come check it out.


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